The morning the proclamation was to be made dawned strangely still.
The monsoon clouds had withdrawn as if the sky itself had stepped back to witness the fate of Rajgarh. The palace roofs gleamed; pigeons circled the highest dome of the Chandra Mahal, and the flutter of royal banners echoed softly in the warm wind. Yet beneath that serene sky, the palace breathed panic and hushed preparation.
Inside, the corridors of white marble seemed longer than ever. Every step echoed. Every whisper clung to the pillars like damp air.
Because the throne of Rajgarh stood on a precipice.
The Maharaja lived… but as a shadow of the ruler he had once been.
His breaths were counted in beads of prayer. Physicians, vaidyas, and hakims watched over him like trembling custodians of a flickering flame. He spoke little now, murmurs of dharma and destiny slipping sometimes from his lips.
Power required a hand.
And the kingdom required a voice.
That day, the regency would be declared.
The Queen Regent Prepares
Inside the Queen Regent's chamber, Maharani Aishvarya Devi sat before a mirror of burnished silver. Servants stood ready—yet none dared touch her.
She dressed herself.
She fastened the emerald necklace her husband had given her the day he placed the raj-mukut in her hands and said:
"When the kingdom trembles, you shall be its spine."
Her veena rested untouched. Her long braid glowed against her green silk saree, embroidered with golden peacocks — the sign of sovereignty.
Her reflection did not show a trembling wife.
It showed the ruler of Rajgarh.
Maharani Lalima Devi entered quietly. Red-eyed from tears, gentle even in sorrow. For once, she did not argue, did not cling to illusions.
"He is still breathing," Lalima whispered.
"I know," Aishvarya answered.
"Then… why must a regency be declared today?"
Aishvarya closed her eyes for one long heartbeat.
"Because the British Resident is already writing letters. Because the nobles whisper. Because the army needs orders and the treasury needs a hand. And because dharma does not wait for hope to ripen."
Their fingers brushed.
Two queens.
One throne.
No hatred—only different weights of grief.
The Princes Before the Storm
In the courtyard of the Sun Banner, three brothers stood in a triangle that fate had drawn long before their births.
Aditya Pratap Singh — eldest son, soldier, commander, the sword-arm of Rajgarh. His jaw was tight; his fingers curled around the hilt of his talwar as if he could cut destiny itself.
Samrat Veer Singh — the Crown Prince, the third child, quiet fire, destined to wear the burden of the crown. Today, he stood between duty and the unknown.
Aarav — the youngest, restless heart, his childhood trembling on the edge of vanishing.
Aditya spoke first.
"The firangis will smell weakness like jackals smell blood. The nobles will test authority. Today, clarity must be shown."
Aarav swallowed. "And Father?"
Samrat closed his eyes briefly.
"He told us… rule with dharma, not pride."
Aditya turned toward him.
"And if the Regency Council proclaims our mother sovereign regent… the burden will fall most upon you, Samrat. You are Yuvraj not in name alone anymore. From today onward, every breath you take will be watched."
Samrat smiled faintly.
"Was it not always so, dada?"
Aditya exhaled. "Not like this."
He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Whatever happens, I am your sword."
Samrat placed his hand over Aditya's.
"And I," he answered softly, "am your blood."
Aarav wrapped his arms around both of them suddenly, fiercely, like the child he still wished to remain.
"Then let us walk together to the Diwan-i-Khas."
And they did.
Anushka at the Jharokha
Yuvrani Anushka Devi stood alone at the jharokha balcony, the wind lifting her red saree like flame.
West Bengal blood flowed in her veins—royal, resolute, ancient as the rivers. The sindoor at her parting glowed the colour of destiny. From here she could see the city of Rajgarh spreading outward—terracotta rooftops, temple spires, the winding silver thread of the river.
Thousands waited beyond the palace gates.
The city roared in silent anticipation.
A proclamation would change their lives.
Her hands rested on the cool marble railing—but something in the pit of her body felt strange. A heaviness. A flutter.
For days she had awoken in the mornings with faint nausea, dizziness like a low tide against her bones. At first she dismissed it—heat, exertion, emotional strain.
Then she counted the days.
And the truth rose slowly, like dawn.
A child.
Inside her.
Samrat's child.
The heir of Rajgarh…
…or the inheritor of a throne that she herself would one day claim.
Her hand instinctively went to her abdomen.
A tremor ran through her.
Not of weakness — but of possibility.
For one wild instant a thought flashed like lightning through a storm-dark sky:
Do I keep this child?
A future unfolded sharply in her mind — blood, battles, crowns, her hands red with both.
A child was vulnerability.
A child meant chains — or a weapon.
She closed her eyes.
Her breath steadied.
Another voice rose from deep within her — one forged from the soil of Bengal queens who rode to war, who made treaties, who chose destiny rather than accepting it.
No one will decide my path. Not husband. Not kingdom. Not even fate.
She opened her eyes.
The decision formed without drama.
She would keep the child.
But no one would know.
Not the court.
Not the queens.
Not even the man whose blood had created it.
She pressed her palm over her womb with quiet resolve.
"Grow," she whispered silently. "But grow in my shadow."
The Hall of Proclamation
The Diwan-i-Khas, the Hall of Private Audience, had been transformed for the declaration.
Silk banners hung from carved pillars. Incense coiled upward in blue threads. Golden lamps burned like captured stars. At the center stood the lion throne—but empty.
On the right side, nobles of Rajgarh in turbans of crimson and gold.
On the left, priests, scholars, generals.
At the far end, the British Resident stood with polished shoes and predatory patience.
The royal family entered.
The murmur died.
Maharani Aishvarya Devi moved toward the throne—not to sit upon it, but to stand before it like invincible stone.
Aditya stood to her right.
Samrat Veer Singh took his place to her left.
Lalima Devi stood behind, fragile grace cloaked in grief.
Princess Mrinalini and Princess Charumati lowered their gazes reverently.
Aarav fidgeted, but kept his chin lifted bravely.
Anushka entered quietly and took her position beside Samrat — her presence dignified, serene, unknowable like the surface of a deep lake.
Her hand brushed his.
He looked at her briefly.
Unspoken warmth flickered.
She smiled softly — a smile that concealed entire empires.
The royal herald stepped forward and unfurled the proclamation.
His voice boomed.
"By decree of the gods, by law of the ancestors, and by will of Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj, presently incapacitated by divine illness —"
The hall held its breath.
"—until such time as His Majesty resumes full governance, the powers of statecraft, command, coin, treaty, and judgment shall be exercised by Maharani Aishvarya Devi, the Green Queen, as Regent-Empress of Rajgarh."
A sound rose — half gasp, half prayer.
"The Crown Prince, Rajkumar Samrat Veer Singh, shall stand as designated successor and Dharmadhikari of the throne, his authority second only to Her Majesty the Regent."
The words struck the world like iron.
Some bowed.
Some smiled in secret satisfaction.
Some stiffened — especially the British Resident.
His lips curved.
"A formidable woman to rule," he murmured under his breath. "Troublesome."
The priests chanted blessings.
Conches blared.
Drums thundered.
Rajgarh had a regent.
And the Crown Prince had stepped out of youth forever.
Samrat and Anushka — A Quiet Moment
The proclamation ended, rituals completed, loyal oaths sworn.
As twilight slipped into the palace like purple silk, the family dispersed.
Samrat did not go to celebrations or councils.
He walked to the garden of night-blooming jasmine.
Anushka followed.
He stopped beneath an ancient banyan tree whose roots coiled like serpents around the earth. Fireflies shimmered around them like captive stars.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then he said softly:
"My father's shadow has fallen. My mother bears the crown's weight. And I… must walk a road I have never walked before."
She stepped closer.
"Rajkumar… you were born for the gaddi."
He turned to her.
"And you? You did not choose this life. You were given in marriage to a man whose destiny is chains woven from gold."
Her smile tilted faintly.
"Who told you I did not choose?"
He blinked.
The wind stirred her veil. Moonlight caught the sindoor in her hair, blazing red — destiny's mark and dagger's promise.
She looked into his eyes and said in a whisper like silk sliding over steel:
"I choose every step I take."
Something fierce twisted in his chest — admiration, love, awe, something unnamed.
He touched her cheek.
"Stay with me."
She laid her hand over his.
"I will stay."
She meant it.
She also meant more than he could imagine.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.
Two shadows merged beneath the banyan tree — future queen and future king.
Inside her womb, scarcely more than a cluster of cells, the next heir listened to the beating of two hearts.
Anushka closed her eyes.
No one must know.
Not yet.
Not until the world was ready.
Not until lives had been burned, thrones overturned, empires shaken.
Not until the kingdom was hers to shape.
The Regency Declared — Consequences Begin
By nightfall, messengers galloped across provinces carrying royal seals. Town criers shouted beneath city gates. Temple bells rang.
Rajgarh had entered the reign of a queen.
British East India Company officials whispered.
Some nobles sent secret letters.
Some priests declared omens fulfilled.
The army bowed in obedience — for Aditya permitted no hesitation.
The common folk lit lamps by the river.
And in the highest chamber of the palace, beneath canopy of pearls and brocade, Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj slept between life and death…
…heart beating softly.
Unaware that the world he had built was already changing.
Unaware that the daughter-in-law who bowed at his bedside carried a child that might end or save dynasties.
Unaware that his warning — "Trust not every smiling face, even beneath a bridal veil" — had already begun its slow blooming into fate.
The Final Resolve
Late that night, Anushka returned to her chamber alone.
She dismissed her maids.
Locked the doors.
Stood before the mirror.
Her hand pressed over her womb again.
A tremor of fear passed through her — honest, human, fleeting.
Can I raise a child in the midst of rebellion, blood, and conquest?
She saw two futures.
One — obedient wife, silent queen, mother of heirs.
The other — ruler.
Founder of a united realm.
Breaker of empires.
She lifted her chin.
The decision crystallised like a diamond in fire.
"I will keep you," she whispered to the life within. "But not as their hostage. You are mine first — mine and destiny's."
She wiped a tear before it fell.
Not weakness.
Control.
Then she blew out the lamp.
Darkness folded over the Crown Princess of Rajgarh…
…who carried within her the secret that would one day set kingdoms ablaze.
And as the palace slept under the watchful stars, the era of regency truly began — with shadows lengthening, plots entwining, and history shifting its weight.
Rajgarh had stepped beyond the point of return.
And so had she.